Single in the City Page 4

  ‘I guess so. Have you got friends here?’

  ‘Nope. But I talk to Stacy, that’s my best friend, every day.’ Every couple of hours, every day.

  ‘That must get expensive.’

  ‘Nah, I’ve got one of those prepaid calling cards. It’s probably cheaper than calling across town. It’s a good thing too… it’s kind of lonely here.’

  ‘I remember what that was like too. It gets better though…If ever you want to meet for a drink sometime…’

  ‘That’d be great! I’m free tonight.’ I think I have a little crush on Chloe. You know how you get excited when you meet a potential friend, one that you really click with? You trade phone numbers and make plans to see each other again. You plan what you’ll wear and spend your time searching out common points of interest. Except for the kissing, it’s no different than a date. In fact, it’s just as much fun, often with more promising long-term prospects.

  ‘Er, okay.’

  She sounds anything but okay. I’ve just cornered the poor girl into a social engagement with a complete stranger. I must sound desperate.

  ‘Erm, I’m done around six,’ she continues gamely. ‘We could meet somewhere near here.’

  Desperation be damned, I get to go for drinks tonight!

  I know by the unladylike belly rumbles punctuating our goodbyes that this was a fateful meeting and could be the start of something great. You see, unlike those whippet-thin girls whose high spirits kill their hunger pangs, my happy-appetite is legendary. Food only loses its magic when I’m low. And while it’s been nice these past few months shedding pounds on a diet of forgotten dreams, my belly is obviously about to make up for lost calories.

  …This is ridiculous. Ordering lunch is a simple process. Order. Pay. Leave. No need for a panic attack.

  ‘Next, please.’

  ‘Turkey and cheese, please.’

  ‘Bap?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which cheese?’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘Butta?’

  ‘No, just salad cream.’ So far, so good.

  ‘Salad?’

  Oh god, oh god. ‘Just tomahdoes, please.’ As in ‘Awesome, man. I’d like some tomahdoes, heh, heh. Pass the bong.’

  I swear the guy smirks. Is there a medical term for fear of delis? Label or not, I’m developing the condition. If I could turn back time, I’d apologize to all the foreigners I’ve ever been impatient with, and banish all the ‘Why can’t you just speak English?’ thoughts I’ve ever had. Hah, that’s ironic, considering that apparently I don’t speak English. Our cultural blunders may not exactly endear us to the Brits, but they should cut us some slack. We don’t expect them to tip generously or drawl in American upon landing at JFK.

  ‘WACHOUT!’ Someone grabs my coat, yanking me backwards on to the sidewalk.10

  ‘Wha–?!’

  The van blasts its horn as it ricochets off the kerb and speeds off into the distance.

  ‘You haff to look the other way,’ my saviour advises. ‘Well, both ways. Those white vans are shoeisheidal.’

  Suicidal vans, got it. I’d thank him if my heart wasn’t pounding in my throat.

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  Deep breaths. ‘The States.’

  ‘Ah, I come from Espain. We drive on the right too. Iss very confusing.’

  I knew that. It’s just hard to unlearn a lifetime of looking left for danger. Sorry, Mom, all your years of training were for nothing here.

  ‘Tha’s why they write in the roads.’ He points to the tarmac.

  Sure enough, it says LOOK RIGHT in big white letters. So I’m not the first pedestrian to have been targeted. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No prolem.’ He’s smiling as he trots away.

  ‘Wait…’ It’s too late. He’s been swallowed up in the lunchtime throng. I wanted to ask him about the crosswalks.11 Sometimes cars stop, sometimes they don’t. Some people walk across them without breaking their stride, others wait at the edge for cars to stop. I don’t know how I’m supposed to cross one without ending up in the hospital. It’s this kind of advice that’s lacking in travel books. In my opinion, the success of life-saving measures shouldn’t be trusted to interpretation by tourists.

  There’s another one (a crosswalk, I mean; there are tourists everywhere). A man rushes past, practically knocking me out of the way. I’m not kidding. If we were playing hockey, there’d be a penalty. Or a fight.

  ‘You cross on the zebra.’ The lady next to me rhymes ‘zebra’ with ‘Debra’ as she strides past.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You might want to cross the road,’ she snaps. ‘You’re holding up traffic.’

  Her look, as if she’s just remembered the time she stepped in a rather large and steaming pile of something, reassures me that I’m very welcome in her city.

  You know, for all their supposed reserve, Brits can be astonishingly aggressive to newcomers. I vow to walk unafraid across the zeb-ra and to practise saying ‘tomahto’ so they’ll stop sniggering at me. At the risk of sounding like a nutter as I repeat the word on the way to the bar (‘tamahto, tamah–…tomaahto, toemaahhto’), it seems the least I can do to try to embrace my new culture. I think Chloe, as my first potential friend within the country’s borders, will appreciate the effort.

  3

  There’s no sign of Chloe, but with my lingering insecurities about being alone in a bar I’ve got plenty of company.

  ‘Can I please have a glass of Chardonnay?’

  ‘Order at the bar!’

  My mistake. I assumed that a man in a smock, approaching my table, carrying a tray, was here to take my order. How I’d like for once to be the one with the inside knowledge. I wonder if newcomers to the US have the same problem, whether our ways are as mysterious to them. Are they confused by our tipping protocol, or suspicious of our instinct to shout ‘Have a nice day’ at everyone? Do they hurry away from the Wal-Mart greeters trying to push shopping carts into their hands or stare with disbelief at the cars circling the first few packed rows of a parking lot while acres of empty spaces stretch into the distance a hundred yards away? To think I ever believed that we Americans differed from Brits mainly in enunciation, sophistication and dentistry. Hasn’t that been the understatement of a lifetime, considering that I’ve failed to properly order a sandwich, ride a bus, communicate my educational or work experience, cross the street or get a drink in a bar? I’ve told a man to fuck off for doing his job and, for the record, I haven’t had a decent shower in a week because I can’t get the plastic box on the wall to produce hot water. When I asked Mrs Doubtfire, she told me it’s electric. Her look assured me that she didn’t mind explaining because I was obviously retarded. Right, I’mretarded. Tell me who thought it was a good idea to run electricity in the shower.12

  ‘Stace? It’s me. What are you doing?’ Cellphones are surely the security blankets of the twenty-first century.

  ‘Ugh, I’m in a phone conference that’s been going on for ever. Where are you? It sounds like fun. What time is it there?’

  ‘In a bar. About six o’clock. Do you want to call me back when you’re done?’

  ‘Nah, the phone’s on mute. They won’t notice. What’re you doing in a bar? Are you with that guy?!’

  I love Stacy’s nonchalance when it comes to her job. Despite being some kind of analysis wizard, she’s never been one to take employment too seriously. Who do you think I always goofed off with in the afternoons? ‘No, no, I met a really nice woman today at the employment agency and she’s meeting me for a drink. She’s the recruiter, but I don’t think she can find me a job –’

  ‘Not with a P/E ratio of eighteen-point-six.’

  ‘Er, I don’t know what my ratio –’

  ‘I was talking to my boss. What’s she look like?’

  ‘She looks like Reese Witherspoon.’

  ‘Plus the haircut.’

  ‘Well, yes, the haircut.’

  ‘Han, the boss again. Actual
ly, I better call you back. I may have to explain some stuff to these numbnuts in a minute.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. Chloe’ll be here soon anyway.’ I leave her chanting her unintelligible acronyms to an audience of numbnuts.

  But Chloe is definitely not here yet, so I’m justified in continuing my anthropological work, as Dr Goodall would surely do if her interests lay in less hairy primates. It’s a sight to behold. You know how a bakery can sometimes overwhelm you with choice? This bar is wall-to-wall cupcakes. I love the men in this city! They’re young and fit-looking, a little on the lean side, perhaps, but definitely sexy. And most of them have funky haircuts that are sort of sticky-uppy on top. But most unusually, most of them have their hair. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed how bald most Americans are these days. And I’m not talking about our fathers or the old men packing groceries at the supermarket. There are a lot of perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-olds with a widening expanse of forehead.

  There’s a cupcake staring at me. He’s perhaps a little geeky, and red-headed, but smiley. Would it be unfaithful to Mark to flirt back? Surely not. He’s not my boyfriend or anything. In the name of new beginnings, don’t I owe it to myself to spread my wings? I didn’t move all the way to London to get seriously involved with the first guy I meet, even if he does tick all the boxes. Though it does feel a little wrong, given how well we got on. It’s even possible he thinks we have a future together. Maybe he’s in a bar right now, not flirting. In which case it would be unfair. So I shouldn’t flirt. Unless he is flirting. He was awfully flirty when we met. Maybe that’s the way he operates. He might be a complete slut who couldn’t care less about the girls he sleeps with, notching them up on his bedpost as he goes along. That’s so typical. What does he care about my feelings? He’s just trying to get laid, the jerk. It figures, the first guy I meet in London is exactly like all the guys I’ve met at home. Talk about being a creature of habit. Just once I’d like to go out with a nice guy. Watch this, Mark!

  It’s not my imagination; I definitely have superpowers in this country. It takes him less than five seconds to appear at my elbow. ‘Pardon me. You must be a thief, because you stole my heart from across the room.’

  This is the alternative to Mark? Of all the great guys in this bar, in London…in the world…I’ve attracted a parody. Fate is too cruel sometimes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak English.’

  ‘Wha–? But you’re…Right, got it. Uh, have a nice evening.’ He slinks away, undoubtedly to tell his friends that I’m a bitch. I don’t like to be mean to guys, but honestly, sometimes it’s for their own good. He will never, ever get a date with lines like that. Only the very handsomest man can get away with cheesiness. In the hands of lesser beings, it’s a disaster. I’m actually doing him, and womankind, a favour…Though now I feel bad. He was trying. I’ve probably shaken his confidence. Who knows, he might not want to approach a girl again. And he may be a perfectly nice man with appalling judgement in pick-up lines. In fact, wouldn’t I want my boyfriend to suck at picking up girls? I’ve got no right to judge another person like that, and to be so mean in the process. I’ve certainly said enough stupid things in my life. I’m lucky some guy hasn’t made me look like a fool in return.

  ‘Um, excuse me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ His look suggests he’d prefer minor surgery to talking to me again.

  ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry, for before. What I said was stupid.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you’re learning the language.’

  ‘I just didn’t expect the line…It was a really bad line.’

  ‘So bad it’s good?’

  ‘No. Just so bad. What’s wrong with introducing yourself?’

  ‘I’m Jack.’

  ‘Hannah. Nice to meet you, Jack. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for being such a bitch. Have a nice evening.’

  ‘Wait! Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by you again?’

  Some men are simply lost causes.

  ‘Hi,’ says Chloe, ‘sorry I’m late. Have you been here long?’ She’s leaning in like she’s going to kiss me? Fantastic, she thinks I’m a lesbian.

  Mwah, mwah, one for each cheek. Not gay, just European. ‘No, only a few minutes.’

  ‘Should we get a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘White or red?’

  ‘Either is fine. Which do you want?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’

  …‘I’m happy with either.’

  ‘Me too.’ Why do we become so indecisive when it comes to voicing our preferences to other women? Perfectly independent, capable women, even leading lights in their chosen professions who make multi-million-dollar or life-saving decisions on a daily basis, get stymied by the question ‘Still or sparkling for the table, madam?’ Sometimes consensus-building just holds up everyone’s good time. ‘Er, how about white?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, gathering up her handbag. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Wait, I can’t let you pay for it.’

  ‘What? Yes, don’t worry –’

  ‘No, really –’ It’s bad enough I bullied her into meeting me in the first place.

  ‘It’s fine, Hannah.’

  ‘I insist –’

  ‘Really, I don’t mind –’

  ‘Why don’t we split –’

  ‘But I’m putting it on my card.’

  ‘Then –’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Why –’

  ‘How about if you get the next one?’ she says as she goes off to the bar to contemplate why I’ve nearly wrestled her for the privilege of buying a bottle.

  ‘Well, cheers, Hannah! To your move.’ She’s just handed me a mixing bowl on a stem, full to the rim. The English are very precise in their language; maybe this is their way of proving they are not alcoholics, as in ‘I only have a couple glasses a night’.

  ‘Cheers! To finding a job. Which I’m starting to think isn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘There’s always a chance something will come up.’

  ‘But not a good chance.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. Employers have a lot of EU candidates to pick from who don’t need work permits. It’s too bad your old company couldn’t have transferred you here.’

  ‘Maybe they would have, if they had an office here…’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘And if I wasn’t the most junior on the team…’

  ‘Right.’

  Since she can’t get me a job anyway without a work permit, there’s probably no harm in telling her the whole story. ‘And if I hadn’t been laid off.’

  ‘Is that like being made redundant?’

  ‘Does that mean I’m out of a job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then yes.’

  My old company announced on a bright Monday morning that Indians speak better English than we do. Following the industry trend, they were relocating my PR job to someplace called Hyderabad. Call me selfish, but knowing that India’s future is secure as the world’s outsourcing capital didn’t exactly take the sting out of the event.

  It’s fair to say that I can sometimes be dramatic. I don’t get pimples and period cramps; I get cancerous tumours and recurring bouts of appendicitis. So I’ve got a fairly lively imagination, and I have envisioned myself in most scenarios. The Deathbed, for example, is a favourite that I like to invoke after a break-up to picture how gutted my ex-boyfriend would be to lose me permanently. Comebacks is another, where I deliver all the cutting remarks I wasn’t quick-witted enough to say at the time. The Firing plays beautifully in my mind. I’m the epitome of good grace, full of sophistication and understanding. My boss, shedding a heartfelt tear, wishes there was some way he could keep me. I’m the strong one, the shoulder to lean on when everyone else falls apart.

  So I was called to the conference room where our HR rep and my boss waited to tell me that an Indian PhD would be writing my press releases in future. My boss wouldn’t meet my eyes
. The HR rep’s gaze was full of pity. Nothing prepared me for the humiliation I felt. Not even hearing about my severance package drowned out the horrible feeling of rejection. How was I supposed to go back to my desk and act like everything was fine? I wasn’t, apparently. I was to leave the building with my belongings in a cardboard box. My boss mumbled something about confidential files and corporate liability. At that point, I burst into tears, fled the room and called Stacy from the lobby. Call me Gibraltar.

  Stacy promised to be there in five minutes. I had visions of fist fights and assault charges. ‘What are you gonna do?’

  ‘I’m going to take you out and get you drunk.’

  True to her word, we were full of tequila slammers by lunchtime, righting the world’s ills in a single flammable breath. Just before last call, the reality of my predicament spilled back into my consciousness, at which point Stacy uttered four fateful words.

  ‘So change your life,’ she slurred. ‘You never liked that job anyway.’

  She was right. But change my life? ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Why not? Start with some highlights or something.’ Stacy’s entire outlook improves every six weeks with a good cut and a blow dry.

  She obviously didn’t understand the gravity of my predicament. Even drunk, I knew something was seriously wrong. ‘Stace, I’m in a rut. I have no job. I don’t like who I’ve become. And my hair colour is fine.’

  ‘Then why don’t you do something big?’

  ‘What’s big in Hartford, Connecticut?’

  ‘Who says it has to be here?’

  She had a point. With my severance package, I could move to New York, or Chicago or…

  ‘London.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘London.’ She directed my attention upwards.

  In front of us was a ten-foot-high British Airways billboard. Nonstop flights to London from Logan Airport. It was literally a sign that I should move to Europe, like I used to say that I would. Like most things do when your blood alcohol level approaches your GPA,13 it made perfect sense.

  ‘Should I do it?’

  Stacy didn’t miss a beat. ‘Definitely!’

  ‘You want me to move?’

  ‘I want you to be happy.’